


Rebuilding

by kate_the_reader



Series: Bob [5]
Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:56:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Bob wants to make changes, but letting go of the past and moving on might not be as easy as telling a secret in the dark.





	Rebuilding

**Author's Note:**

> As always, my dear friends mycitruspocket and MsBrightsideSH helped make this story better.

Telling Dave is terrifying. 

He hadn’t been certain Dave had heard him when he whispered in the darkness that he was ready to tell his secrets. To reveal the part of himself he has not wanted to bring into Dave’s neat, quiet home, his ordered life. The part of himself that is disorder and chaos. The part of himself that belongs to One Two and Mumbles and the Speeler. The part he might no longer need.

But letting go might not be as easy as telling a secret in the dark. 

*

“What’d you want to tell me last night, love?” Dave says, as they stand in Bob’s tiny kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil.

It had seemed possible in the dark. But it seems impossible in the pale morning light falling through the dingy window.

“It’s too … I can’t …” he pushes his hand through his hair. “It’s not something I can just …”

“It’s okay, Bob,” Dave says. “Later, maybe, eh? You can tell me later.” And he smiles at Bob and gets the tea mugs out of the cupboard while Bob gets the milk and they stand leaning against the counter drinking tea together and then Dave says: “Well, I need a shower and then I have to get to the builder’s merchant. Do you have to get out soon, love?”

Bob thinks about what is waiting for him at the Speeler, One Two’s raised eyebrows, his sly questions, after Bob had said what he said in the pub. “Boyfriend.” He never thought he’d say that. He isn’t sorry he had, though. Fuck it, fuck One Two if he couldn’t handle it. 

“Nah,” he says. He hasn’t checked his phone yet. His lot aren’t early starters, mostly.

He listens to the shower running, to Dave in the bedroom getting dressed. He stands in his shitty kitchen and thinks about what he wants and it isn’t the noisy silence of his flat, with only the neighbours’ racket behind the walls, and it isn’t the raucous, pointless chat of the Speeler. It’s the shower running, and the bathroom door opening, the clink of a belt in another room, footsteps coming down the hall.

“See you at mine tonight?” Dave says, coming back into the kitchen.

Bob slips his hand up behind Dave’s head and pulls his face down and kisses him a bit desperately. “Yes. At yours.” 

Dave smiles and brings his own hand to the back of Bob’s neck and rubs his thumb in a circle and steps back into the hall where his boots stand by the door. “Have a good day, love,” he says, opening the door and closing it quietly behind him, as down the corridor someone slams theirs.

Later, in the car, One Two starts. “Boyfriend, Bobby-boy?”

“Yes, fuck! Just … just shut up!”

“And those other guys …?”

“Friends.”

“Bit of a screamer, that younger one though.”

It is almost more than he could stand, to be stuck there with One Two’s ignorance. “What would you even know, eh? Nothing. Geez.” Bob focuses on the traffic then, tries to pay no attention.

In the late afternoon, he drives to Dave’s, to the other side, as he’s come to think of it, lets himself into the house, goes upstairs and flops down on the bed. The quiet wraps itself around him, the sound of a lawn being mowed down the street the only noise. He drifts, not really asleep, not really thinking, till he notices a pile of laundry on the chair, his things mixed in with Dave’s, and gets up and starts folding them, t-shirts and pants, jeans and socks, and putting Dave’s away.

He is almost done when a key rattles in the lock downstairs and Dave comes in and calls from the hall, “Hello, love” and comes up the stairs and into the bedroom just as Bob makes his things into a neat pile. He looks over his shoulder and sees Dave in the doorway with an expression that is … soft. “Oh love,” he says, and comes over and Bob turns round, still holding a pile of pants and socks, and Dave takes Bob’s face in his hands, his rough hands, and kisses him and Bob isn’t surprised, really, but he is not able to help the sound he makes, almost like a sob.

“What’s wrong?” Dave asks, and Bob just shakes his head, sure that if he tried to explain that the clean peacefulness of Dave’s house, of his life, is making it harder to live in his own grimy, noisy world, he would crack up completely. Dave has seen enough of his tears already. 

Dave just holds him. He drops the clothes so he can get his arms round Dave and in a bit, he says: “What’s for tea?” and they go downstairs to cook and talk about Dave’s day.

But his promise to tell is still hanging over him, so much later, in the dark where it is always easier, he says again, “You know I'm not just a driver?”

He is lying with his head on Dave’s shoulder. “What do you want to tell me, Bob?” Dave says, looking sideways at him in the dim light that falls through the window.

“I want to tell you who I am, really,” Bob says, his voice sticking in his throat a bit. “What we do, me and One Two and Mumbles.”

“Okay.” He can hear the slight smile in Dave’s voice at the names.

“Well, I _am_ a driver. But not _just_ a driver. We … we do some,” he has to pause to clear his throat, “we do stupid and … violent shit. For stupid and violent people. People who don't give a fuck about … the law.” He rubs his hand down his face. “I’ve done violent things, Dave.”

Dave has his hand on Bob’s shoulder, arm curved round, holding him in a loose embrace. He doesn’t say anything, right away, but he tightens his arm. “Bob,” he says then, “Oh Bob.”

Bob tips his head back, trying to see Dave’s expression.

“Do you want to tell me?” 

Bob doesn’t really, but he started it, so he tells about the Russians, how they crashed the truck into their car and smashed it open and how he bashed one with the golf club. And that was just the once. He tells about other times too. And times he’d been just the driver but he’d known what the others were doing.

Dave listens quietly, his face turned towards Bob, even if Bob isn’t looking him in the eye. He doesn't press for details, or comment, just listens. When Bob stops talking, he says: “Thank you for … trusting me.” He turns on his side, towards Bob, and kisses him, once. 

But Bob’s breath is short and he needs, suddenly, some space. “I need a piss,” he says, slipping out from under Dave’s hand, out of bed, out of the room. In the bathroom he looks at himself in the mirror. Has he fucked it up _this_ time? He lies awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. Dave sleeps on his side, turned away. 

The morning is a bit of a rush and Dave doesn’t say anything about what Bob told him, but he says as he leaves, “See you tonight, love”. 

Bob is left there, in the quiet house, unsure what to think.

Dave hadn't thrown him out. It had been a risk. Bob is used to risk, his whole life has been risk. Stupid fights with bigger boys at primary school; hanging about the streets alone after dark when his mum was out; furtive meetings with bigger boys at secondary school; catching One Two’s eye all that time ago (and what was he except the biggest of the big boys?); fuck, “it’s you I want” — that’d been one of the biggest risks he ever took. Agreeing to try again with Dave — that’d been a risk that worked out. Maybe the only one, really. Was this risk like that, or like all the others, reckless and stupid? Bob thinks it was like the good risk, but he can’t be sure.

And suddenly, the house feels too quiet, too neat, and he feels itchy with tension, with the need to get out. He grabs his clean clothes, not even sure what he is doing, and leaves with them stuffed in a carrier bag. He goes back to his flat and lies on the sofa with the curtains drawn and the telly playing kiddies’ programmes and housewife shows, any crap just to have voices around him to drown out his discomfort. He must doze for hours, because when his phone ringing wakes him, the room is even darker and he has no idea of the time.

“Bob? Where’d you get to, love? I texted you.”

“I’m at home,” he said.

“At your flat? When d’you think you'll get here then?”

“Um …”

“Did you get my texts?”

He sits up and tries to focus. “No. I’ve been …”

“Busy? That's okay. Come over when you can.”

“’Kay. Bye. See you.”

“See you.” Dave sounds puzzled and Bob can’t blame him. He doesn't even know what he was doing when he left.

He looks back at his phone — ten text alerts. Six from Dave, four from One Two. He ignores the ones from One Two and looks at Dave’s. 

The most recent says: “Where are you, love?” Sent ten minutes ago.

He scrolls back to the first one, sent at 10 o’clock. “Thank you for telling me.” And straight after: “I needed some time to think. We’ll talk tonight, okay?”

Bob isn't sure what to think about that, but the next one, sent at lunchtime, says: “you okay?” and he thinks about how Dave must have felt, with no answer. The next one, sent just after, says: “Don’t be scared love”. His chest clenches at that. The next one, sent in mid-afternoon: “I’m worried. Let me know you’re okay?”

He texts: “i’m sorry you were worried. I was asleep”. He feels shit, realising Dave texted him every time he had a break all through his work day. While Bob hid away and slept.

He grabs the carrier full of his clothes and leaves, waiting impatiently as the lift creaks up from the ground floor, glancing at the texts from One Two: “you coming in?” “Where are you?” “Fucking hell bob” and “call me”. He puts his phone in his pocket without calling.

He drives all the way barely suppressing his irritation at the traffic and other drivers, but finally, he turns into Dave’s street and finds a parking space and grabs the carrier and goes up the path and stands on the doorstep. Hesitates on the step. He has his key, he could just go in, but he stands there, wondering. He is just getting his key out of his pocket when the door opens and Dave is standing there. “There you are!” he says, frowning and and smiling at the same time. “Hello, love.”

Bob steps through the door as Dave steps back and he walks into him, head lowered, and just stands there, leaning against him, looking at the floor, arms by his sides, hand gripping the carrier. Dave brings his hands up, one to Bob’s neck, one to the small of his back. “Bob,” he says.

“Sorry,” says Bob. “Sorry you were worried.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“I know. I’m a dickhead. I was just …”

“It was worse, after what you told me, the worry.”

“Yeah. Fuck. Sorry.” He still hasn’t looked at Dave properly. He drops the stupid bag and looks up. Dave is smiling, still that puzzled smile.

“Ah, Bob. We’ll sort it out.” He slides his hand round to Bob’s jaw and tips his chin up and kisses him. The tension doesn’t fall away all at once, but he feels a bit more settled.

“Tea’s ready,” says Dave and they walk into the kitchen, so warm and familiar, with pots on the stove and places set at the table.

When they’re sitting, across the table corner, with bowls of pasta, Dave reaches for his hand. “What was wrong today?”

“I will tell you, but it’s too … please just tell me something ordinary, can we just talk about something else? For now?”

“Yes, okay. For now.” Bob knows Dave doesn’t let things like this slide away, but he’s grateful that for now, he has understood. Dave talks about the day, the silly thing one of the lads did with some paint. 

Afterwards, he takes their bowls to the sink. Dave says: “Leave them for now.” He gets two beers out of the fridge and says, “Come sit down, love?” It’s not a demand, but Bob knows he isn’t going to be allowed to put off talking until they’re in the dark. He follows Dave to the sofa and accepts the beer.

“Now will you tell me about today?” says Dave.

He can’t look at Dave. “I told you terrible things I’ve done. Violent, terrible things. For money. I was paid to do terrible things. And I did them.” He’s looking down at his hands, turning the beer bottle restlessly. His bent finger, the relic of a long ago fight, is a constant reminder of how stupid he has so often been. “I didn’t want to lie to you anymore. But I don’t know if I should have told you all those things. Fuck! How can you still … still—”

“Love you?”

It’s like an electric shock. No one has ever said that to Bob. Well, his Nan used to. But no one has ever said that to Bob like he thinks Dave means it. He turns to look at him. Dave is looking at him with that frowning smile of his. He reaches out and touches Bob’s face. Bob closes his eyes, leans his cheek into the touch. _How can Dave say this now?_ But he bites his lip to stop himself saying that. Dave leans forward and kisses him. “Oh Bob,” he murmurs. 

It is tempting to simply accept this, to allow this to be the end of the discussion, and the Bob of a few months ago would have wanted to drop it. But now, Bob knows it’s better to be as honest as he can be. He has asked for what he wanted and been given it. He has confronted One Two’s ugliness. He owes Dave as much honesty as he can give him. Even if it is a terrible risk.

He leans away from Dave and says: “But I haven’t told you everything yet.” It’s always easier to look away, but he forces himself not to. “Just before we met, only a few weeks, I was supposed to go to prison. You know I told you about One Two? It wasn’t my birthday, it was supposed to be a send-off. And the posh bloke, Bertie? He’s a lawyer. He gave us the docket with the name of the grass.” 

Dave looks like he doesn’t know what to think. “Turned out the grass was the big boss. Now there’s another guy in charge. He isn’t such a violent prick.” He stops and takes a breath. He’s let it all out in a rush. There’s just one more confession.

“Fuck. I was so terrified of that stretch. I didn’t think I could handle it, and everyone kept saying it would be five. Five!” 

He’s said it all now. He didn’t even look away. Dave reaches for his hand, doesn’t say anything.

“That’s it. That’s everything. So now you know.”

“All that happened just before we met?”

“Yeah.” He laughs. “Mad, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. Mad.”

“But can you see why I got nervous today? I was sure you were going to decide you didn’t want to deal with it. Wouldn’t want me around now you know I’m … just a criminal.”

Dave squeezes his hand. “It’s a lot,” he says. “It is. I’m not going to lie. But I don’t think you are just a criminal, Bob.”

“But I am. I’ve never done anything else. All I can do is drive. And hurt people.”

“Have you ever hurt an innocent person?”

“What? No! Fuck no! Only other criminals.” He knows how stupid that sounds. “I only ever fought back.”

“How did it start, Bob? Can you tell me? Will you?”

“I hated school. I was so crap at it. I skived off as often as I could. My mum wasn't there to make me go, half the time. I bunked off any chance I got. I got so tired of being picked on. I was smaller. But I learned to fight back.” His voice is hard as he says this. “And then, after I left school, soon’s I could, I met some guys, and … here I am. I didn’t know any better. I couldn't do anything else. I got a driving licence and One Two and Mumbles let me hang around and drive them. So, you know, I fitted in. Finally. Except I didn’t, really, I suppose.” 

Bob had tried not to avoid Dave’s eyes, but Dave has looked away, he’s looking down at their hands.

“I know what it’s like, feeling like you don’t really fit in at school. But I was lucky. My mum and dad were always there to look out for me. My dad gave any bigger boy who tried it on with me hell. They made sure I did okay. And my dad helped me get a job as a brickie. I wasn’t all alone.” He looks up at Bob. “You were all alone, love. You were just looking for a family, I reckon.”

“Yeah. And they’re not bad guys, you know, all the time.”

“Of course not.”

“A lot of the time, though.” He doesn’t want to deny what he has done, what he is. 

But suddenly, he’s tired of talking. Tired of looking backwards. “Can we go upstairs, now? Please?” He hopes Dave understands what he’s asking for. 

Yes,” says Dave, standing up, “it’s been quite a day.”

He did nothing all day, just slept, but he wants a shower. “Will you shower with me?”

Dave seems to hesitate, but then he says: “Sure. Okay”, and Bob feels calmer than he has all day.

They share the shower without touching deliberately, though. Dave has been casually affectionate, but Bob really wants something more forceful, although his confessions of violence have made him think maybe he better not be the one to start anything. They wash and get out and dry off and still Dave doesn't move to touch him. 

Finally, in the bedroom, he can’t stand it anymore. He takes a step closer to Dave, signalling his intention, trying to see if Dave agrees. He takes another step and now he’s in Dave’s space. He looks up, tipping his head back, they’re so close, but still not touching. “Why won’t you touch me? Are you …? What? Fuck, I don’t know! I’m sorry. I wish I was different, I do! I can’t be though. I can only be me.”

Dave’s standing with his hands at his sides. He looks so sad. Bob’s never seen that look. Or maybe only that day when Bob had been stripping the sheets, after the first time Dave fucked him. He can’t stand the thought he might never have that again. It hits him like a punch. What if they can’t get past this? What if it turns out Dave can’t look at him the same, despite what he seemed to say downstairs. _Oh Christ, no._ If only Dave would react, would do what Bob wants him to do, _needs_ him to do. _Why won’t he?_

They’re both still naked. He places his hands flat on Dave’s chest, slides them down to his waist, down to his hips, his thumbs brushing down his stomach, down the trail of hair there, his fingers wrapping round. He’s looking down, at his hands, but then he looks up and Dave is still frowning, as if he doesn't know what he wants. And that is just so … unsettling. It’s always been Dave in charge, making Bob grow up and take new risks and learn new things and now he just looks like he doesn’t know what to think.

Bob takes a step forward and then another and he’s pushing Dave backwards to the bed and this could be a very bad thing, a really stupid thing, but he just wants a reaction. Any reaction. Dave doesn’t try to stop him and he’s got to know what Bob is doing and Bob keeps pushing until Dave is forced to sit down on the bed. Now it could go one way or the other and he really doesn't know which would be less stupid. It’s not like Dave never likes Bob on his knees. After the first time, he has let Bob do that, and enjoyed it. Or Bob could stay standing, could lean down, could make Dave look up at him. As he hesitates, Dave seems to come to a decision. He leans back on the bed and reaches up for Bob. 

Bob straddles him, leans in, his hands on Dave’s shoulders, bends down and kisses Dave. And Dave's hands come up and hold Bob’s head in place and _oh thank fuck!_

It almost knocks the breath out of him.

He climbs on the bed, crawling over Dave, and pushes him further onto the bed as well and Dave’s eyes widen but Bob doesn’t say anything, just leans down again and kisses him, and it’s not gentle. Neither is Dave’s hand on the back of his head.

That feels right, at last — Dave’s strong, rough hand holding him. He’s above Dave, leaning down, his thighs and his arms making a cage, but what he really wants, what he needs, is different, after what he just told Dave. He leans down further, his mouth at Dave’s ear, and asks: “Fuck me? Please?” Will Dave understand why it’s so important to him? He lifts his head, so he can see Dave, almost holding his breath. Dave reaches up, traces Bob’s bottom lip with his thumb. Bob opens his mouth, sucks it in.

“Oh love,” says Dave, “of course.” And Bob lets go of a bit more tension.

“Thank god,” he says, and scrambles off the bed, goes to the drawer for condoms and lube and hands them to Dave; goes to get a towel from the airing cupboard. His heartbeat feels very loud, crashing in his chest, as he comes back to the bed where Dave is waiting, the covers pulled back. There’s always this awkward moment, when you know what you’re about to do, but it’s sort of hard to start. He gets on the bed with Dave and turns to him, reaching out to touch him, his shoulders, his chest — his nipples peaking under his hands. His stomach … fuck, Bob loves Dave’s body —strong but not sculpted by the gym or anything. His cock, hard and leaking already, like Bob’s. Dave’s hands are roaming across Bob’s body too, and Bob’s breath is coming in hitching gasps. Bob will never get enough of Dave’s hands on him, he wants them everywhere, he itches for it. Dave leans in to kiss him, his hand at the back of Bob’s head, and Bob clutches at his shoulders. He feels a bit like he's drowning, like he has to hold on. They kiss till he forgets how to breathe. He drags in a huge shuddering gasp of air and then Dave is groping on the bed, and he tears open a condom and hands it to Bob. He likes this bit too, his hands on Dave’s cock, a little pause, and Dave gasps and closes his hand on Bob’s, just for a second, and he’s reaching for the lube and there’s the click of the lid and the squelch of the stuff and he needs this, he needs Dave to invade him. Even to hurt him a bit. He’s impatient. “Please, Dave,” he says, and his voice sounds strangled, “please, please.” 

“Yes,” says Dave, not calm either, and pushes Bob down on his back. He’s kneeling above Bob and Bob’s looking up and he pulls his knees up and lets his thighs fall wide and Dave’s hands are on him, pressing his thighs up, even wider, holding him down and then his slippery fingers are at his hole and Bob pushes his hips up and Dave’s finger slips in and … that’s what he wanted. To feel possessed. To feel that bit of pain. To feel himself accept the invasion. He cranes his neck up and Dave leans down and they kiss and he feels himself relaxing and wanting more and Dave knows and gives him what he wants, what he needs, and when he can’t wait anymore he says: “More, god, more” and Dave is there, his cock pushing in, entering Bob, and he feels taken over in just the way he loves and Dave hasn’t stopped looking right _into_ him.

Afterwards, as they lie pressed close, shattered, just before the langour of aching muscles and the exhaustion that always follows such intensity overtake him completely, Bob says: “Did you mean that, what you said before?”

“Before?”

“Downstairs. When you said …” He wishes he could say it himself, but he never has.

“When I said ‘love you’?” Dave has got up on one elbow and is looking down at Bob, even though it’s dark.

“Yes. That. Do you still … after everything I told you?”

“What do you think we just did, Bob?”

“That’s different.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. It doesn’t always mean … that. But yes. I did mean it. I should have said it before. I’m sorry.” Dave lies back down. Just when Bob thinks that maybe he won’t say any more, he says: “I also meant it when I said thank you for trusting me enough to tell me. Will you trust me to understand? I can’t say I don’t have a lot to think about. But I can’t just stop—”

“I’m sorry I’ve never … I never learnt …”

“We’ll get there, love. Together.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thank you.”

He turns on his side, his head tucked under Dave’s chin, his hand on his chest, and feels safe.

*

Bob is sitting on the sofa watching _Ready, Steady, Cook!_ when Dave comes in. He comes over, his clothes dusty and smelling of sawdust, and leans down to kiss Bob. “Hello, love. How was your day?”

“Okay, I suppose.” Bob has been sitting here all afternoon watching crap on the telly. “I did the shopping.”

“Thanks, love. I’m going to have a shower. What do you want for tea?”

“I bought sausages.”

He should get up and peel the potatoes. Do something.

When Dave comes back in, dressed in trackies and a T-shirt, Bob is standing at the counter with the spuds. He gets two beers out of the fridge and opens them.

“Thanks. God, I need this. This job is killing us. Nothing is ever right. Today it was the taps. That she picked last week.” He laughs and takes a swallow of his beer. “But you don’t want to be bored with that.”

Bob does though. “Of course I do. How was Joe?”

The easy rhythm of cooking and chatting about Dave’s day lifts the pall of boredom that falls over Bob when he’s alone here all day. He’s glad not to have to be at the Speeler every day waiting for something to happen, but not having anyone to talk to, even just stupid stories and idle chat over cards, boasts and tall tales, is hard to get used to. He thought he wanted some peace and quiet. Turns out you can have too much. 

He knew when he told Dave the truth about what he did, it was so he could stop. Because he couldn’t keep doing that and being in Dave’s neat, normal, law-abiding life. He knew he was asking Dave to tell him to stop. But Dave had not. After the first few days, after he realised the Dave was really not going to throw him out, he kept wondering when Dave was going to say it: “Stop being a criminal. Get a job.” But he had not. He’d stopped asking about “work”, but it was only when Bob said: “I don’t want to do that anymore” that he’d agreed.

But getting out might not be as easy as telling a secret in the dark. 

How do you leave a gang? They don’t want to let you go, in case you grass them up.

He’d packed up his clothes and left his flat, pretty sure that they didn’t know where Dave lived, all the way on the other side of the city, far away from the grimy East End streets they frequented. He’d got a new mobile, with a new number; turned the other one off. Days could go by in which he could ignore the itch of all that. Then he’d turn on the old mobile and see a string of messages from One Two: “where the fuck are you?”, “call me Bob”, “did you go on your holidays?”; and from Mumbles: “Okay Bob?”, “Where did you get to?”. He’d look at them and delete them. There’d been nothing for the last week, thank god. Not that he thought that was the last he’d ever hear of them. If he could go far away, that’d be different. But he couldn’t just move. Leave London? He’d never lived anywhere else. Hardly ever even been anywhere else. And besides, Dave is in London, that was the whole point of leaving. 

So he stays in at Dave’s. Does the shopping. Puts laundry in the machine. He even hoovers. Watches afternoon telly and waits for Dave to come home. He’s waiting for the next step, for the next part of his life to start. But how to do that? How do you get a job when all you can do is drive? All he can think of that he’s qualified to do is drive a minicab or something, but he couldn’t possibly pass a background check, could he?

He’s at the sink washing the dishes after tea one evening when Dave says: “Why don’t you come with me tomorrow? I could do with someone to go pick up the stuff from the builder’s merchant.” He is busy at the counter, doesn’t look at Bob. 

Bob looks over his shoulder. “Work for you?”

“Help me out. Get out of the house. Don’t you want to?”

Of course he does. But work for Dave? He can’t think of a good excuse though. “Okay. Yeah.”

Dave looks up and smiles. “That’s good. It’ll be a help.”

The job is in Islington. Dave’s fitting a new bathroom, and wardrobes in the bedroom. The lads are waiting on the pavement when Dave pulls up. “Hi, boss,” they say. “Hi, Bob.” He’s met them both before, but it’s a bit awkward. The boss’s boyfriend. Dave had just introduced him matter-of-factly by name, and neither of them had said anything, but who’s to say what they’d said to each other. Dave comes round to the passenger side door. “Okay, Bob? Just tell them you’ve come for my order. I’ll phone and let them know you’re coming. They know my van, too.”

“Okay.” Bob ducks his head, wishes Dave would stop hovering, fussing. 

The lads have gone inside.

“Okay, love?” Bob has his hand on the window edge, Dave squeezes it “Thanks for doing this.”

“Yeah. You better go in, see what new demands they have.” He’s itching to get moving. 

“Right.”

As he drives off he sees in the mirror, Dave standing on the step.

Bob doesn't know the streets around here very well, but he checked the _A to Z_ map book over breakfast, so how hard can it be? He gets a bit lost, but he finds it without losing too much time. Dave told him to go straight to the back of the place, where they fill the orders on account.

“Hi,” he says. “I’ve come for the order for Dave Parker?” Taps, a shower fitting and some packets of screws, Dave phoned it in yesterday, he said.

“And you are?” says the man behind the counter. 

“Bob.”

“You new? Not seen you with him before,” says the man.

“Yes. He said he’d phone.”

“Nah. Not today. He phoned the order, but how do I know who you are?”

 _Shit_. “He didn’t phone?” _Shit_. Bob can feel himself flushing. He turns to leave.

“Hold on! Why don’t you ring him yourself? I haven’t been on the desk all morning.”

 _Yeah, that’s a good idea_. “Yeah, course.” He pulls out his phone, rings Dave. 

“Hello, love, everything alright?”

“He says you didn't phone,” Bob says, trying to keep his sudden fury out of his voice; drops to a mutter, turns away. “He says he doesn't trust me.” That’s an exaggeration, but it’s how he’s looking at Bob.

“I did phone. Maybe the guy I spoke to went to get his tea. Let me talk to him.”

Bob hands the phone to the man, who listens to Dave, studying Bob all the while. 

“Course, Dave,” says the man. “Sure.” He hands the phone back to Bob; he disconnects. “That’s alright then, Bob,” he says. “Just sign here and then come through and get the stuff.”

He’s perfectly friendly, but it’s not so easy to forget his look of suspicion. Bob signs the order docket. The man lifts a flap in the counter and Bob follows him into a stockroom where he’s given the two boxes and a bag with the other things. 

“There you go. Sorry about the mix-up, mate!”

Back out in the van he sits for a few moments before starting it. He wonders why he’s so angry. 

His phone rings. “Bob, everything okay now? I’m sorry!”

“I suppose. He looked at me like a criminal though.” He can see the funny side of that, but he’s still humiliated, and he doesn’t feel like talking. “See you.” 

He takes a slightly long way back and he’s mostly calmed down by the time he gets there. He takes the boxes and the bag and goes to the the door, rings the bell with his elbow. Dave answers it. “Oh, love,” he says, frowning and smiling. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah!” He thrusts the things at Dave and is turning to leave. “I’ll just go …” Where? What’s he going to do the rest of the day now he’s done this tiny, stupid errand for Dave? Which Dave could have done himself in half the time and with less aggravation all round. 

Behind him, Dave puts down the boxes and comes down the steps. “Bob? Wait!” He puts his hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Love? I really am sorry. That wasn’t what I had in mind. What are you going to do now?”

“I dunno!” says Bob, and he can feel that his tone is too sharp. “I’ve done your errand, I guess I’ll just go home and do the washing. Hoover. Whatever!” He tries to shake Dave’s hand off. “I’ll get the Tube,” he says. And walks off down the street. 

But he doesn't go home. When he gets to the Tube he decides “fuck it” and walks on. He arrives outside a cinema just in time to go in and watch a movie, so that kills a couple of hours, then he finds a pub and gets a pint. And then another. It’s mid-afternoon before he realises. He walks slowly back towards the station. There’s a fit-looking guy in the train who gives him a very frank once-over. Bob smiles at him, just to see what will happen. When he stands to get out at Acton Town, the guy stands too, steps next to Bob as he waits for the train to stop and the doors to open. That wasn’t really what he intended. “You live around here, then?” says the guy. Bob hesitates. “With my boyfriend,” he says, finally.

“Lucky man,” says the guy, with a look of faint regret. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around.” He takes the steps up from the platform two at a time, giving Bob a good view of his arse. What if he had lied? Or not even lied? Just not told the whole truth? _Yeah, fancy a drink?_

He walks slowly home, under the trees that line Dave’s street. The van isn’t there. Why would it be, it’s not late, for people with actual jobs. The house is clean and quiet, of course. He flicks on the telly, just to have voices in the background. There’s nothing to do. Not even any dishes to wash. He wanders into Dave’s study, turns the computer on, but it needs a password that he doesn’t know. He goes back to the kitchen and grabs a beer from the fridge, opens the French doors and steps out onto the little terrace. The sun is nice. He’s on to his next beer, half asleep in the sun, when Dave’s key rattles in the front door. He doesn't get up. 

“Bob?” Dave calls from the front hall, “You here, love?”

But he still doesn't get up. Dave comes to the door. “There you are!”

“Here I am.” His voice is heavy and a bit slurred.

“You alright? What did you do today?”

“Nothing. Got drunk.”

“Yes, I see,” says Dave, but he doesn't sound cross, really. He steps out, comes over to Bob, pushes his hand into his hair and pulls his face against his hip. “I really am sorry, love. It was thoughtless of me.”

“I felt like shit,” says Bob, his voice muffled against Dave’s dusty jeans. 

Dave crouches down. “Yeah, I imagine. I doubt he really did think badly of you, but I know that doesn't make any difference.”

Bob’s sick of feeling so angry about it. He knows it wasn't so bad. And what happened in the shop isn’t really why he’s so bitter. He wipes the back of his hand across his eyes. “Yeah, I suppose he was only doing his job.”

“Ah, Bob.” Dave’s right there, but he makes no move to kiss Bob, just runs the back of his fingers down the side of his face. Bob closes his eyes, biting his lip to keep the stupid tears from overflowing. Dave slips his hand under under his chin now and tilts his face up, kisses him lightly. He stands up with a slight groan. “You want another beer?”

“I’m half-pissed already.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay.” Dave goes back inside. “I’m going to order a curry.”

Bob gets up and goes inside too. He needs a piss. When he comes back downstairs, Dave is on the phone, ordering food. Bob walks up behind and leans against him, forehead on his shoulder. Dave reaches back and finds his hand while he carries on talking to the curry place. When he ends the call, they stay like that for a few more minutes.

“I’m sick of feeling useless,” says Bob.

“I know, love.”

Dave turns around and puts his arms around Bob and holds him and they don’t say anything but this feels like home.

After they’ve eaten, he decides to try again. “I hate being so useless. Sitting around here. Spongeing off you.” They’re sitting on the sofa, Dave’s arm along the back, Bob leaning his head into the contact. “But I don’t know how to get a job. All I can do is drive. But who’s going to hire me? No one’s going to trust me. Why would they? And if they check …”

“Yes, but, were you ever actually convicted?”

“No. We never knew why. Everyone said it was going to be five and then …” He hates this, talking about his grubby past. “They’d still see I see was arrested.”

“We could try again, you could work for me. Properly. Not just helping out. I made a mess of that today. But it could work—”

“No! That’s just like sponging off you. I can stay here and work for you. Do the cleaning.”

“I can do the cleaning. You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s better than doing nothing. Except hoovering. I fucking hate hoovering. You can do that.”

Dave laughs. “Yeah, I know.”

“But I do want a real job.”

“And you can’t go down the job centre?”

“No. They’ll only ask questions as well.”

Dave turns to look at him now. “Bob, you might have to accept that. But you don’t know no one would ever give you a job. You’ve not been convicted. Find out, before you give up, eh, love?”

He’s never really thought about that. That maybe his past isn’t too dirty. That maybe he can get out. Move on, have something new.

“Okay,” he says. He leans against Dave. “Fuck, what a day.” Another day where he’s exhausted from doing nothing.

*

Over breakfast, he says, “Do you really think I could get a job, driving? I mean, I’m pretty good at it, finding my way round. It might be nice. Better than just hanging around. Easier than some of the dumb stuff I used to do.” 

“Why don’t you find out?”

“How?”

“Well, look up how to get a licence. A permit, whatever.”

“Yeah. Okay. I can try.”

Before he leaves, Dave starts his computer, tells Bob the password.

“Have fun,” he says.

Bob doesn’t really know where to start, but he types in “driving a minicab in London” and finds the Transport for London website and is amazed to see that although you need a criminal record check, what they’re looking for is convictions for serious violence and sex stuff and he thinks for the first time that maybe he could pass the check. He spends the rest of the day thinking about that while he cleans. He even does the hoovering.

He’s at the kitchen counter listening to the radio and chopping vegetables when Dave gets home. He didn't text him to tell him, he wanted to save it. Dave comes over and kisses the back of his neck, just under his hair, which is getting longer, because he likes it when Dave pulls it a bit, and says: “How was your day, love?”

“Good,” he says. “Yeah, it was good.”

“I’m glad,” says Dave, and Bob turns round and kisses him, still holding the knife and Dave laughs and pushes him against the counter and then he turns to go upstairs. When he comes back down, skin still faintly damp and his hair combed back, he says: “Have you got something to tell me?” 

And Bob wonders how he knows. He gets two beers out of the fridge and opens them and they stand there, leaning against the counter, hips pressed together, and he says: “Maybe I could get that job after all.” He’s trying not to sound too excited because who knows, maybe it won’t work out and just getting a permit isn’t the same as getting a job, but he can’t keep it all out of his voice.

Dave turns to look at him, smiling. “Yeah? I thought it might not be so hopeless.” 

Bob grins back at him. “It might work out,” he says, and tells about the sort of things it seems like they check.

After tea, they start to fill in the first of the forms on the website. He can’t see the point of some of the questions and he doesn’t know the answers to some of them. If he was on his own he might give up, but Dave has filled in forms like this before. “They always ask weird questions,” he says. “You just have to be honest.” Bob laughs at that and Dave cuffs him lightly on the back of the head. It’s quite late by the time it’s filled in. But the really difficult part is the check. The website calls it an “enhanced” check, but it doesn't say exactly what that means. There’s a list of things that will get you barred straight off and Bob hasn't actually done any of those things. So maybe it will be okay. 

Dave doesn’t let him slack off and the next day he makes him apply for the background check, even though he’s terrified of what they’ll find out. After he has applied all he can do is wait and that’s nearly unbearable, wondering every day if he has failed. If some of the things he has done will be enough to bar him.

The other thing it says you have to do is pass a “topographical skills” test and he didn’t even know what that meant, but he finds out it means being able to read a map and plan routes from one place to another, so he takes to studying the _A to Z_ book and going for drives, trying to work out the best ways to get from place to place. It’s good to have something to do with his time, something that forces him out of the house. 

On the Saturday after he applied for the check, Dave says, “Okay, take me to Richmond” and he won’t let Bob look at the map and he gets a bit lost, but it’s not too bad. It’s really nice there, by the river, and they get lunch in a pub by the water and go for a walk and watch some posh gits rowing. It’s a good day. 

He almost forgets he’s waiting to hear if he can leave his past behind and be ordinary. The nervousness hits him again on Sunday evening because tomorrow’s Monday and when he applied for the check he got an email that said it should be done by Monday, but what if it isn’t, will that mean he’s failed, that they’ve found out so much they can’t get through it all in the time? 

When he says some of this to Dave, he doesn’t laugh at him, he understands. He can’t say much to ease Bob’s worry, but he distracts him effectively enough.

The next day, he deliberately doesn't check the email, goes out driving instead, even though he may never have to do the map test. At the time he knows Dave takes a lunch break, he phones from a table outside a scruffy pub where he’s ended up.

“Hi.”

“Bob?” he says. They don’t talk on the phone that much for no reason.

“Nothing. I just wanted … to say …” He has to pause and swallow before he can go on. “I just wanted to say thank you.” And now he hurries on before Dave can reply. “Thank you for giving me a push. It _was_ like a family. But I don’t need that anymore.” 

He’s blushing, even though Dave can’t see. It’s the closest he’s got to saying what Dave, with his calm certainty, can easily say. And Bob had to wait till he was sitting alone at a grotty pub table to say.

“Oh love,” says Dave, his voice soft and infinitely fond. 

“I didn't look at the email yet,” says Bob. “I couldn’t.”

“We’ll do it together.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He’s digging at the varnish of the table with his thumb nail. “So, I’ll see you at home then.”

“Yes. At home. Bye, love.”

“Bye.”

He goes home then. He hangs his jacket in the cupboard in the hall and takes off his trainers. He goes upstairs and opens a drawer in the bedroom, where his socks and pants are, just to see them there. He goes into the bathroom, where there are two towels. He goes back downstairs and takes the washing out of the dryer, his jeans and Dave’s jeans tangled together, more wrinkled than they should be because he forgot them when he went out. He folds them, trying to smooth out the creases as best he can. He looks in the fridge to see what’s there and thinks about what they can cook for tea. And when he hears a key rattle in the lock, he goes to the hall and as soon as Dave steps through the door and closes it he walks straight up to him and backs him against it and reaches up and pulls Dave’s face down and kisses him, hard. And Dave drops his bag and grabs Bob and kisses back.

“I didn’t look for the email yet,” says Bob.

“Do you want me to?”

He’s managed to ignore his anxiety over the check for some of the day, but now it’s back so he can hardly breathe. As long as he doesn't know, the possibility of moving on is still there.

“Okay.”

Dave’s hand is on the back of his head, his thumb rubbing the slow, soothing circles. 

“Let’s go see,” he says. 

Bob can’t stay still while the computer starts, he’s pacing near the door, over to the shelves, behind Dave’s chair.

“Is it there?”

“Yes.”

“What does it say?”

“Hang on.”

“Fuck. I didn’t get it. I knew—”

“You passed, love. You passed.”

“What?”

Dave stands up, comes over to where Bob has retreated to the doorway. 

“You passed the check.”

“I passed?”

The weight of years slips off his shoulders. He sags against Dave. They stand in the doorway of the study together for a long time. Finally, Bob says, to break the tension: “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, me too,” says Dave. “What shall we cook?” 

“Tomato sauce.” The first thing they cooked together. 

As Bob chops onions while Dave does the celery, like usual, Dave says: “Now you can book a time to do the map test.”

“Yes.”

“And then send out some applications.”

“I haven’t even got the permit yet.”

“Well, you’ll surely pass the map test.”

“I’ve never done a job interview. What if they don’t like me?”

“Maybe they won’t all. Someone is bound to, though. Why wouldn’t they?” He looks over at Bob. “People like you, Bob. You’re likable.” 

“Yeah. Well. You do.”

“I do.”

“Me too. I mean … I really … I really …” He has to swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand. Onions don’t usually make him cry so much. 

He puts down the knife, steps closer to Dave. “I’ve never said it. But you know, right? You know?”

“Oh, love. I know.”

He tips his face into Dave’s shoulder. “I was walking round the house earlier. I really live here, don’t I?”

“You do.” Dave’s voice is amused and fond.

“Thank you.”

The tomato sauce is delicious and afterwards Bob does the washing up while Dave makes tea. And then they look up local minicab firms to apply to. 

If he stops to listen, his heart is still too loud in his chest. 

Later, in bed, in the dark, when Dave seems to be asleep, Bob tucks his head under his chin and whispers into his chest: “I love you.” He doesn’t fall asleep for a long, long time. But it’s okay, he’s home.

*

It took quite a while to get used to wearing a suit every day. The suit he’d last worn to court. The third car firm he applied to had taken him on, just a few shifts at first, at crap times, but Bob quite likes it. Some of the people he picks up like to have a chat. Runs out to the airport aren’t bad, the passengers excited about going away, or businessmen working. The late night shifts aren’t so much fun. Drunks, a lot of them. Some groups of girls going out for an evening, hen parties. Sometimes he gets couples, even blokes. But the job’s okay, and the other drivers are alright and they sit around the dispatch office and play cards while waiting for call-outs. 

He has stuff to tell Dave, about his day, if they’re both at home in the early evening. Stories that he doesn’t have to change. And he never looks at his old mobile anymore.

He’s been there a couple of months when he gets a pickup at a familiar address. One he only went to twice but remembers vividly. He pulls up outside and waits till the fare comes down. He’s dragging a big suitcase, dressed for a holiday. Bob gets out to put the case in the boot. 

“Alright then?” he says. “Heathrow?” He wonders when he’ll be recognised.

“Yes,” in that tight-arsed, posh voice of his. “But I need to make a stop. There should be time.” He’s not really looking at Bob. His sort don’t really look at people serving them.

“When’s the flight?” says Bob, “And where’s the stop?” 

There should be time, the traffic isn’t too bad today. 

He stops where he’s asked to and waits while Bertie goes to the door of the house. The door opens and he can see the guy inside. They seem to argue for several minutes before the door is slammed and Bertie comes back to the car scowling. “Alright?” says Bob. “Heathrow now, sir?”

“Yes, for fuck sake!” 

Bob doesn’t pull into traffic, just looks steadily at Bertie in the rearview mirror. Until Bertie finally recognises him and his eyes widen in shock, just like at Stella’s party. Bob pulls out then. Bertie tries to avoid his eyes for the rest of the drive. Traffic is worse than he thought, but he makes it in time. He doesn’t say anything as he hands Bertie his suitcase from the boot, just tells him the fare. 

When he checks the wad of notes, it’s almost double. Most he’s ever got from him. Well, aside from the docket. And the urge to go to a pub in Soho one Saturday night.


End file.
